The 16-year-old boy in my 8th period English class:

I hate this Shakespeare junk. Who cares about this stuff anyway? Except my teacher, but she has to like it I guess. I’m never going to need to know about Hamlet. Although, listening to Kristin read as Ophelia is kinda nice. She’s hot. Maybe she’ll be at the game tonight. And I’ll score the winning shot, and she’ll come over to congratulate me, and I"ll ask her to come to Andrew’s party, and then… well, what are the chances of that happening? I’m not even playing varsity. Besides, I heard Kristin talking to Jamie about how Craig ate with her at lunch today. He’s a senior. I don’t have a chance. How much time is left in this period? 12 more minutes? That’s not too bad. Then, 9th period’s just Chemistry, and he never notices when I fall asleep. Granted, my mom’s going to flip over my D, but whatever. Wait. What did she just say?
“Mrs. J, what was that?”
“Pencil and paper. On your desk, now. Let’s see how much you remember from the last 45 minutes.”
Oh, crap.